Civil Blood
by Losseniaiel
Summary: The betrayal of Finrod Felagund from the perspective of a bystander


**Civil Blood**

**Disclaimers:** Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.

**Rating:** PG.

**Summary: **The betrayal of Finrod Felagund from the perspective of a bystander.

**A/N:** The title comes from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_: "…where civil blood makes civil hands unclean" (as well as I can remember it).

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I stood in the shadows while they killed my king stone dead.  Flat on his back with a gaping wound in his chest.

Aye, aye, I know what you will say.  But think you that they are kinslayers with swords alone?  Nay, not them.  Words as barbed as an orc's axe they had.  They need not stain their precious snow-white hands with any more red, red blood, although I doubt not that they would if they thought it would aid them, and with smiles on their faces, their black hair flying in joy like the ravens on the wings of a storm.

But they did not even need to draw a sword, for they had the Lord of Werewolves to set his fell beasts upon him in the dungeons which my king built himself.  But their words killed him, make no mistake, sending him and the Lord Beren off into the darkness like that, with not a dozen warriors at their backs.

Death they dealt him, with their clever words, death with their dagger-glances as certain as if they had thrust a knife up between his poor ribs.

And I saw him, I saw him … and, in the name of Whoever watches, I would do anything to take back that moment, to unravel the skeins of time and see it undone.

White he was, white as death itself come of a sudden from the deep places, as if all the blood was gone from him in that instant.  I do believe that the fatal blow was dealt there and then, by the fell sons of a fell father, there in the halls which my king had built with his own hands.

How could they?  Not _them … I would expect all foul treachery from _them_.  'Tis of the others I speak, of the Elves who had known him for years beyond count, yet in that moment, between one thud of my heart and the next, turned away from him, repudiating his claim to be their leader, to the crown itself – as if there could never be any head in Elvenhome or these lands more worthy of that circlet.  Never has any borne burdens with such grace and joy as our Felagund – and they stripped it from him._

There he stood, candles guttering and failing around him, and, I swear, you may strike me dead if in all my years, I have seen any look so sad as he did then, as if he finally understood some dread secret which had been hidden from him.  Grey to the tips of his ears, his hair suddenly no longer sun-gold but the fading yellow of blooms at the end of summer.  And he looked – and may we all be damned for beholding it – he looked _old_, as if he were no immortal Elf, but one of my people reaching the tail-end of his days, as if the years had crashed down on his shoulders, in one blow from which there was no escape.

All the joy was gone from his eyes, which once danced with the fresh light of the dawn on rippling waters.  Ai – I am a foolish one, to wax so poetic at a time like this as if I was but another damn Elf.

But … but … if you had seen it, so would you.

As if they had robbed him of all his dreams – stolen away like thieves in the dark, with his great, generous heart hidden under their arms.

And the greatest traitor of them all – no son of Fëanor could have done to him what his own brother … his own flesh and blood … did.  Aye, my lord Orodreth, it was right that you turned your eyes away, not meeting the gaze of he you had just wounded to the death – for yours was clouded with his blood.  Shrug, and utter not one word, and slink into some rat-hole like the coward you are.

What hideous work of Morgoth was that, that set your back against the blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh?

And he shook, the poor dear lad shook from head to toe as he cast down the crown, rolling and clattering on the floor.  'Twas as if a thousand swords rose in clamour in that simple fall.

I could not help but look upon him, while my lords Curufin and Celegorm watched the crown with the eyes of hungry wolves.  And his face – his poor face – as he watched it too, his eyes sad and o'er-brimming with his ready tears, as if all were naught but dust.  I could see the mastering strength it took to hold his voice steady, not to give into the rage and regret.

"Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond.  Yet if there may be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go as a beggar that is thrust from the gates."

I shuddered then, as I shudder now, for it seemed to me that the ice of which I had heard tell, and which he had yet held at bay, was entered into his voice, and all joy slipped out.  And Lord Beren stood there, transfixed by all that had befallen; grief and wonder clear writ in his face.

And so he went from us, and so few, so very few raised their swords to him in fresh pledge.

A king without kingdom, but still a king, for who could strip that from him?

Although he dandled me on his knee when I was but a lass, I wept for him as a mother for her son that night, watching him gird on his sword, and stride from his own home, as an exile bereft.  But what place has a craftsman in this?  What place has a dwarf in any of this?  Skill with metal, and with gems have I, but it is beyond me to wrest a Silmaril from the crown of the Enemy, and I should only have been a burden upon him, warriors though my folk are accounted.

So I curse them, in the name of Mahal and all the Powers.  May their Doom fall upon them in blood, torrents of blood, until the earth runs red with it, and may their torment be eternal – for my grief for the spilt life of my king shall never abate.

And I shall remember.

For perhaps I could have done more, and his blood is scarlet on my hands as I wander through my dreams.

FINIS

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End file.
